Chapter 37 #2
Skyre’s eyes narrowed. “Can’t you make them be quiet?”
The druid said nothing at first. Then, he rose, scooping the younger pup—Arken—into his arms. “You were so delighted in their receiving. I can’t imagine you’ve soured so quickly.”
Skyre tried to ignore him, but the druid came to sit at his side. The puppy squirmed excitedly, licking the druid’s face, though the latter remained unbothered. He said, “If you’ve something on your mind, you may tell me.”
“Nothing is the matter.”
“Is that true?”
Skyre went silent.
The druid leaned forwards, letting the little beast run back to its brother. The room filled with the sounds of their vigorous chase. “There is every reason to be uneasy about the M?t. The embarkment is a great undertaking… or so I’ve been told.”
Skyre let slip a dry laugh. “If you dinnae ken, then you shouldnae say needless things.”
“Alright.”
It was easy to forget the druid was not like those who made home at Rhyd-hal. Nor like any he had met before. He was particular and frustrating, if accidentally.
“Then, I will be blunt. I wish to return to the Arran Fáoth.”
Skyre’s brows knit. “Not this again.”
“Not to leave entirely. Rather, if we shall be voyaging cross country, then I would like us to make rest there. You wish to pass into Annath. We may go, first, by the northern road. If it is no trouble.”
“That isn’t…”
“There is purpose,” the druid continued. “I have reason in asking. Though, I do so in the hope you will also have reason in answering.”
The king’s lips pressed and he could think of nothing to say except, “The route has already been decided. We may not trend so far east as to take you where you wish.”
“But you are king. If you choose, we could go anywhere at all.”
Skyre’s fingers dug into the parchment.
“It need only be a week, or less.”
It wasn't begging. The druid knew not how to plead. And yet, it wasn’t lost on the king the nature of his appeal. His words were matter-of-fact, but lacked the grease he so often heard in others.
“I told you, I willnae entertain some delusion—”
The druid’s hand slipped into his sleeve. Skyre braced, though knew not why, and calmed only as the druid withdrew a folded paper. He reached for it, but the druid held it back. “Be gentle. It is fragile.”
Skyre settled his proclamation on the table beside him and grasped gingerly for the parchment. He could barely discern the runes beneath the firelight. Some he recognized, though most were foreign. No, not foreign—ancient. “I cannae make it out.”
“The script belongs to the first of men,” said the druid. “The eldest of our kin.”
He tensed against the idea that ever they might share a thing, but such history, he supposed, was true. Then, the record which he held now was certainly hundreds of years old. He turned skeptical eyes upon the druid. “You can read it?”
“Of course. It speaks of the arrival of a villainous people. Creatures who came from beyond the sea. It refers to them as… Muuirn.”
It was an odd name for odder beings. On the one hand “muuirn” could mean ice or winter, or the time in which it came. But Skyre had certainly never heard it spoken in such strange context.
“I was never taught of such a thing, and I was studied in the annals of all history.”
“No,” said the druid. “Only the history they wished you to have. That such an account survived at all in these halls is nothing short of miraculous. Though, how it came to be here… I do not know.”
It was a fair question. One he had no answer for, and he considered that the druid was right.
There was much he had not been told.
“If this account is true, then what happened to these Muuirn?”
The druid shook his head. “It says simply that they departed, having found the country barren of flesh. Though, the account is incomplete. If there was more within the script, it is long lost to the flame, but there is another way to reclaim it. Your priests are not the only ones to archive the world’s story. ”
Skyre scoffed. “The druids.”
“It is not idly I return to them. But my people possess a particular power. And this power has long been proved. This very record is a testament to that.”
Skyre eyed him. “Of what do you speak?”
“It is called the Naém. A communion—a pact we of the forest have with the trees. Through them, we may see the past.”
Skyre had heard of this power before, though the An’Atherin were skeptical to say the least. The druids were a primal people and their words full of savage things.
“Why should I believe anything the wildlings have to say? They might all be as raving mad as you,” said Skyre.
“It is not madness you fear.”
The king stiffened. “How should you ken anything of me?”
It came like a whisper, soft and silken. For the first time, those pale lips curved up as the druid smiled. It was an odd and gorgeous thing, and the Vaich could not wring it from his mind. So lost was he in that stretching moment that he nearly missed the words that followed.
“You are rather… undifficult.”
There was a long pause, and then… Skyre laughed. He laughed and laughed until his cheeks hurt. Till his chest burned and ached. “If you wished to call me simple, you might just say that.”
The smile lingered a while longer. “Not simple,” said the druid. “Though, predictable.”
“Then tell me, what do you predict of my reply?”
“I would hope that you would say yes.”
“And if I say no?”
The druid considered that for a good while, and said, “Then I shall do it, anyway.”
Skyre grinned. “Yes,” he muttered, “predictable.”
“Your answer?”
Skyre held the parchment up one last time. “Do you truly believe in this… this dream of yours? Giants and ships and long-departed monsters…”
“I believe in understanding. If there is truth there, I wish to know. And if it should come to be, I will learn how to stop it.”
The druid’s smile had gone, but the depth in his eyes spoke of years—of distance and time. Such conviction would not allow itself to be ignored, no matter how badly Skyre wished to.
And he should have. He should have said no. Everyone would expect him to. So many decisions had been taken from him, to even consider it felt like a charade.
“If I should allow you… If I should bring you to your home, what is to say you would not remain there?”
The druid said, “I gave myself to you. That was my promise.”
Skyre’s eyes shifted to the silver ring upon the druid’s finger, sat with that small pale stone. And for a moment, he was there above the altar once more. A gnawing sensation came over him, and he glanced away.
There was the crackle of fire, the bray of the pups, and the night dragging slow about them.
“Then you may have it. What you wish,” said Skyre, quietly. “And you will return to me when it is done.”
The druid nodded his agreement, and they drew quiet as the fire burned low.